‘My dad used to read that to me.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser. Where’s your dad now?’
‘Not here.’
‘Is he away on business?’
‘He travels a lot.’
Her mum is being spun across the dance floor, sending her dress twirling and knickers flashing.
‘Your mum is having a good time.’
Alice rolls her eyes. ‘She’s embarrassing.’
‘All parents are embarrassing.’
She looks at me more closely. ‘Why are you wearing sunglasses?’
‘So I won’t be recognised.’
‘Who are hiding from?’
‘Why do you think I’m hiding? I might be famous.’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m incognito.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘In disguise.’
‘It’s not a very good disguise.’
‘Thanks very much.’
She shrugs.
‘What sort of music do you like, Alice? Wait! Don’t tell me. I think you’re a Coldplay fan?’
Her eyes widen. ‘How did you know?’
‘You’re obviously a girl of very good taste.’
This time she smiles.
‘Chris Martin is a mate of mine,’ I say.
‘No way.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The lead singer of Coldplay- you know him?’
‘Sure.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘A good guy: not conceited.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Big headed. Up himself.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s a cow.’
‘Gwyneth is OK.’
‘My friend Shelly says Gwyneth Paltrow is a wannabe Madonna. Shelly shouldn’t talk ’cos she told Danny Green that I thought he was fit only I never said that. As if! I don’t fancy him at all.’
Someone stands in the open doorway and lights a cigarette. She screws up her nose. ‘People shouldn’t smoke. It causes gangrene. My dad smokes and my two uncles. I tried it once and puked over my mum’s leather seats.’
‘She must have been impressed.’
‘Shelly made me do it.’
‘I wouldn’t listen to Shelly so much.’
‘She’s my best friend. She’s prettier than I am.’
‘I don’t think she is.’
‘How would you know? You’ve never seen her.’
‘I just find it hard to believe that anyone could be prettier than you are.’
Alice frowns sceptically and changes the subject.
‘What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’ she asks.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a joke. I heard someone say it.’
‘I don’t know. What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’
‘Forty-five minutes.’
I smile.
‘OK. Now explain it to me,’ she says.
‘That’s how long a wedding ceremony lasts. The difference between a boyfriend and a husband is forty-five minutes.’
‘Oh. I thought it was going to be rude. Now tell me a joke?’
‘I’m not very good at remembering jokes.’
She’s disappointed.
‘Do you really know Chris Martin?’
‘Sure. He has a house in London.’
‘You been there?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’re so lucky.’
She has a small almond-shaped birthmark on her neck below her right ear. Lower still, a gold chain with a horseshoe pendant sways back and forth as she rocks on her heels.
‘You like horses?’
‘I have one. A chestnut mare called Sally.’
‘How tall is she?’
‘Fifteen hands.’
‘That’s a good size. How often do you ride?’
‘Every weekend. I have lessons every Monday after school.’
‘Lessons. Where do you have those?’
‘Clack Mill Stables. Mrs Lehane is my riding teacher.’
‘You like her.’
‘Sure.’
Another shriek of laughter echoes across the bar. Two men have joined the hen party. One of them has his arm around her mum’s waist and a pint glass in his other hand. He whispers something in her ear. She nods her head.
‘I wish I could go home,’ says Alice, looking miserable.
‘I’d take you if I could,’ I say, ‘but your mum wouldn’t allow it.’
Alice nods. ‘I’m not even supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘I’m not a stranger. I know all about you. I know you like Coldplay and you have a horse called Sally and you live in Bath.’
She laughs. ‘How do you know where I live? I didn’t tell you that.’
‘Yes you did.’
She shakes her head adamantly.
‘Well, your mother must have mentioned it.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Maybe.’
Her lemonade is finished. I offer to buy her another one but she refuses. The wet cold from the open doorway makes her shiver.
‘I must go, Alice. It’s been nice meeting you.’
She nods.
I smile but my eyes are focused on the dance floor where her mother clinging to her new male friend who bends her backwards and nuzzles her neck. I bet she smells like overripe fruit. She’ll bruise easily. She’ll break quickly. I can taste the juice already.
21
The phone is ringing in my sleep. Julianne reaches across me and lifts the handset from its cradle.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she says angrily. ‘It’s not even five o’clock. You’ve woken the whole house.’
I manage to pry the handset from her fingers. Veronica Cray is on the line.
‘Rise and shine, Professor, I’m sending a car.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘We have a development.’
Julianne has rolled over, pulling the duvet resolutely under her chin. She pretends to be asleep. I begin dressing and struggle to button my shirt and tie my shoes. Eventually, she sits up, tugging at the front panels of my shirt and drawing me closer. I can smell the soft sourness of her sleepy breath.
‘Don’t wear your corduroy trousers.’
‘What’s wrong with corduroy?’
‘We don’t have enough time for me to tell you what’s wrong with corduroy. Trust me on this one.’
She unscrews my pill bottles and fetches me a glass of water. I feel decrepit and grateful. Melancholy.
‘I thought it would be different,’ she whispers, more to herself than to me.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we moved out of London- I thought things would be different. No detectives or police cars or you thinking about terrible crimes.’
‘They need my help.’
‘You want to help them.’
‘We’ll talk later,’ I say, bending to kiss her. She turns her cheek and pulls the bedclothes around her.
Monk and Safari Roy are waiting for me outside. Monk opens the car door for me and Roy guns the car around the turning circle outside the church, spraying gravel and mud across the grass. God knows what the neighbours will think.
Monk is so tall his knees seem to concertina against the dashboard. The radio chatters. Neither detective seems ready to tell me where we’re going.
Half an hour later we pull up in the shadow of Bristol City football ground, where three brutally ugly tower blocks rise above Victorian terraces, prefabricated factories and a car yard. A police bus is parked on the corner. A dozen officers are sitting inside, some of them wearing body armour. Veronica Cray raises her head from a car bonnet where a map has been spread across the cooling metal. Oliver Rabb is alongside her, bending low, as if embarrassed by his height or her lack of it.
‘Sorry if I caused any marital disharmony,’ the DI says, disingenuously.
‘That’s OK.’
‘Oliver here has been a busy boy.’ She indicates a reference point on the map. ‘At 19.00 hours last night Christine Wheeler’s mobile began “ping”ing a tower about four hundred yards from here. It’s the same phone she left home with on Friday afternoon but it hasn’t transmitted since the signal went dead in Leigh Woods and she began using a second mobile.’
‘Someone made a call?’ I ask.
‘Ordered a pizza. It was delivered to the flat belonging to Patrick Fuller- an ex-soldier. He was discharged from the army for being “temperamentally unsuitable”.’
‘What does that mean?’
She shrugs. ‘Your area not mine. Fuller was wounded by a roadside bomb in southern Afghanistan a year or so back. Two of his platoon died. A nurse at a military hospital in Germany accused him of feeling her up. The army discharged him.’